Chapter Thirty-Seven
Daphne
A fter what feels like hours, I finally slide into my rental car, the cool leather seat offering a brief moment of relief after the energy of the stadium.
I take a deep breath, letting the quiet hum of the engine soothe my nerves as I start her up.
The game went well, Mark was nowhere to be seen, Matteo had been surprisingly civil, and I’m happy with my work for the night.
All-in-all, it's been a success, and I’m pleased at how much lighter I feel as a result.
But then I reach into my bag, and my stomach drops.
I frown as I move my hand around again, certain I must have got it wrong. But when I still can’t find what I’m looking for, I pull my bag onto my lap and search through it with my eyes, just to be one hundred percent sure.
Yep - I was right.
I’ve gone and left my laptop charger in the press box.
I groan, slamming my palm against the steering wheel.
"Unbelievable. "
I could always just set off home and make do without it, but stubbornness kicks in. I need that charger, and I know I'll regret not going back for it now when I’m right outside the stadium if I have to set off for it first thing in the morning instead.
I mutter some choice words under my breath as I unbuckle my seatbelt and make my way back toward the stadium entrance.
The whole place is eerily quiet now. Most of the fans have cleared out, and the hallways feel like empty corridors, the echo of my footsteps the only sound.
Although it’s admittedly a little creepy, I find myself overall oddly calm in the solitude.
I’ve almost reached the door of the press box when I hear footsteps behind me.
I can’t explain how, but I instinctively know who it is before I turn around.
"Forgotten something, giornalista ?"
Matteo is alone.
He’s clean, now; no longer wearing his dirty kit with mud streaked across his face and arms, but is instead dressed in a dark tracksuit that compliments his olive skin, his hair slightly damp from his post-match shower.
"Shouldn't you be celebrating, Rossi?” I ask. “Or are you planning on spending the night here?"
“I’m in no rush to leave,” he shrugs. “But you definitely shouldn’t be here.”
I suddenly feel very caught out.
“I… may have forgotten my laptop charger,” I admit .
"Wow. I was just joking,” he says, his lips twitching as he steps closer. “ You ? Forget something? I’m shocked."
"Yeah, yeah," I mutter, trying to brush off the way his proximity affects me. “I’m just as shocked as you are. What can I say - it happens to the best of us.”
Matteo’s gaze lingers on me for a moment longer than necessary.
“Sure,” he says, voice low. “But you always seem so… in control . I thought this would be impossible.”
"Well, I am human," I reply. “Even if it doesn’t look that way.”
"I guess we all have our moments," he smirks. “But you’ve got it all together, right?”
"Oh please. You’re making me out to be the poster child for perfect organisation or something."
“I don’t know," he teases. "You seem pretty put together when you’re covering our matches. It’s… kind of impressive, actually."
I deliberately ignore the slight flutter in my stomach at the compliment as I arch a brow at him.
"It’s my job to be impressive, Rossi. Trust me, there’s nothing special about it."
“I don’t know, giornalista. You seem special to me.”
He leans back slightly, eyes scanning me from head to toe; and I could swear that this man enjoys pushing my buttons just to see how far he can go before I crack.
"You looked pretty comfortable up here tonight, too. Like you belong in there."
"I do belong here," I tell him, though my own tone is playful as I continue. "The fact that I have to deal with you is just an added bonus."
His laugh is rich and easy, and it makes something inside me soften despite myself.
"Ah, you're too kind."
The silence that follows is more comfortable than I expected, though the tension between us lingers like an unspoken challenge.
Matteo's eyes flicker toward the door to the press box.
"So, are you going to fetch your charger, or…?"
"Ah - yeah, I’ll just… You know. Grab it."
I pull a face at my own awkwardness as I raise my palm to the door and push against it.
"I can walk you back to your car again,” he says. “Make sure you don’t forget anything else."
I give him a side-eye at the suggestion.
This is very unusual territory for us.
I don’t know what’s gotten into him tonight, and I don’t know how I feel about it, either.
“I’m sure you’d love that. Let me guess, you just want to make sure I don’t trip over my own feet, right?”
“Maybe,” he says, voice dipping a little lower, his grin turning a touch more mischievous. "I’d catch you, I’m sure. As you’ve witnessed first-hand, my reflexes are excellent. ”
I scoff.
"You're unbelievable, you know that?"
"What?” he says, widening those big brown eyes and feigning innocence. “I’m just trying to be helpful."
"Yeah, I’m sure,” I snort, glancing back at him as I push open the door to the press box. “You know, you really do have a knack for making simple things unnecessarily complicated.”
I slowly move inside, and he follows.
“Only when it’s fun,” he replies. “Admit it - you’re never bored around me.”
“You’re unpredictable, that’s for certain.”
“Ah. That’s a good thing,” he says smoothly. “It means I keep you on your toes.”
“If it’s all the same to you, I think I’d rather be in control of my own toes for the time being.”
“A wise choice,” he responds, propping the door open and hovering in the doorway as I make my way across the box.
My eyes narrow as they land on my charger. I can feel the heat of his gaze on me as I make my way across the room and bend at the waist in order to unplug it, his eyes practically burning into the back of my head.
I wrap the cord tightly in my hands, trying to ignore the way Matteo’s presence fills the space around me.
It’s like he’s a magnet, and I’m just caught in his pull, even though I know I should be focused on anything else.
I stand up, pretending to be absorbed in the process of getting my things together, but I can’t quite shake the feeling of his dark eyes still on me.
He steps further into the press box, the door falling to a close behind him as he places his hands into the pockets of his tracksuit and gazes out at the pitch from the glass viewpoint.
I watch as he leans against the glass, looking at the field below with a distant expression.
“You know, I’ve been playing here for a long time now, but this place always feels different after a win.”
“How so?”
He turns his head slightly, catching my eye.
For once, there’s no smug smirk, no cocky retort.
It’s as though the layers of bravado have fallen away, and he’s showing me something else.
Something new.
“It feels like everything is right in the world,” he says, the words almost hesitant, like he's not used to admitting something so vulnerable. "My father used to say that about every game I played, but especially the big ones. That feeling of pride, of happiness, it’s… indescribable."
My heart does something strange, a soft twist I can't quite explain.
"Your father," I say.
His gaze softens, and for the briefest moment, I swear I see something fragile flicker in his eyes.
He stands up straighter, but it’s not the usual posture of someone putting on a show. It's more like he’s remembering something important.
"Yeah. He was the first person I saw in the stands when I made my debut for the first team ten years ago. I was just eighteen years old. You should have seen the way his face lit up. He was so proud."
I nod, though I can’t relate. I swallow against the unexpected lump in my throat.
“That must have been... a big moment for you. For him.”
Matteo’s gaze returns to the field.
“It was. More than I could ever put into words. Football means everything to me. It’s not just the wins or the goals or the glory. It’s about moments like that. The people you’re playing for. It’s family, tradition... all of it.”
I watch him carefully, feeling as though I’m seeing him for what he is for the very first time.
A real person.
“I still enjoy making you squirm during our interviews, though,” he smirks. “It keeps things interesting."
I roll my eyes, but I can't fight the smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.
“Yeah, I’m sure that’s what your fans are most proud of.”
“They’ll forgive me for the flirting,” he says, his eyes glinting mischievously. “When you're this good at it, they don’t mind.”
“ Good at it, huh?" I raise an eyebrow. “Someone thinks very highly of themselves.”
“Well, I have you laughing, don’t I? That’s half the battle won.”
“You're insufferable,” I sigh.
He winks.
“And you like it.”
I shake my head, but there's a warmth blooming inside me I can't ignore.
"I think you’re just full of yourself, Rossi."
“I’m also right.”
"Perhaps," I admit softly, before adding with a touch of playfulness, "but don’t get too used to me agreeing with you."
He grins, leaning back slightly.
“We’ll see about that.”
And just like that, the walls go back up.
The flirtation’s back, along with the usual teasing and cockiness.
But beneath it all, there’s that little crack where I saw the real Matteo. And as much as I try to ignore it, I can’t help but feel intrigued.
"Alright, well, I’ve got my charger," I say, the weight of the moment lingering. I lift my charger to show him before placing it in my bag. "Guess I’ll leave you to your post-match celebration, Rossi."
“Celebration?” he says with mock indignation, eyes twinkling. “You act like I’ve got a party waiting for me. I’m just here, hanging out, making sure that a pretty young woman like yourself doesn’t get lost in the big, scary stadium.”
“Right,” I say, trying to keep a straight face as I head toward the door. “Well, you’re doing an excellent job of that.”
“Of course I am. I’m a man of many talents.”
I hum knowingly.
“I’m sure you are.”
I feel the press of his body close behind me, and before I can even register it, Matteo leans over my shoulder to push the door to the hallway back open.
His hand brushes against mine as he moves it aside, and his sudden closeness catches me off guard.
I feel a strange flutter in my stomach, though I quickly shake it off - after all, there’s no need to over analyse every little thing he does .
Still, the feeling lingers like an uninvited guest.
“After you,” he says, voice smooth and low, a playful gleam in his eyes.
I try my best to act like his proximity doesn’t affect me, and before I know it, Matteo’s walking slightly ahead of me, his gait casual, like he owns the entire place.
Which, in his defense, I suppose he might.
I follow him down the hallway, and he glances over his shoulder, catching my gaze.
"Well, giornalista - you’ve been here long enough without having a real look around. How about I give you a little tour of the stadium?"
“Oh. I’m not sure I should…”
"Come on," he interrupts. "I’m just offering to show you around."
He leans in closer, voice dropping to a teasing whisper.
“ You’re welcome, of course.”
I can’t help but laugh at how effortlessly he turns everything into a challenge.
" Fine ," I say with a playful roll of my eyes, "but if you try to make me run laps on the pitch, I’ll be out of here so fast that you won’t even see me leave."
Matteo scoffs. “I’m pretty sure I could outrun you even with a ten-second head start, but I’m not here to make you sweat... yet ."
He laughs heartily at my responding groan, the sound light and easy, and it’s... surprisingly pleasant.
I hate to think it, but maybe I’ve been wrong about him all this time .
“Follow me, then. We’ll start with the trophy room.”